


The Angel of Broken Creatures

by Scree_Kat



Series: Ineffable Parenthood [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Hermione Granger, Gen, Here be darkness, Hermione Granger is Brilliant but Scary, I promise, So much angst, but there are NO graphic scenes or kids harmed, mentions of child predation, reader discretion advised, you can skip this without impacting understanding of the rest of the series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scree_Kat/pseuds/Scree_Kat
Summary: Though Harry has a reputation as the Tadfield demon of lost causes, his sister, prone to rescuing injured wildlife, wears the nickname the angel of broken creatures with about as much grace as you'd expect from the daughter of a demon.The good people of Tadfield, human and supernatural (and celestial, and Antichristy) alike, tend to forget that protection is rarely as sweet and innocent as they'd like to believe. And Hermione Crowley is just as likely as her twin to leave chaos in her wake.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Harry Potter, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) & Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter
Series: Ineffable Parenthood [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429525
Comments: 105
Kudos: 318





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> READ ME.
> 
> Guys, this fic is gonna be dark, okay? If you choose not to read this, you're still going to be able to follow the rest of the series perfectly well- it'll be just like it's been till now, where Hermione's dark night of the soul has been vaguely mentioned. 
> 
> This story is going to deal with child predation, HOWEVER, no children will be harmed and nothing graphic shown. But because this is such a triggering topic, I needed to put the warning out there. 
> 
> Reader discretion is advised.

CROWLEY

Contrary to popular belief, Harry and Hermione didn’t spend every waking moment together. Nor did the Them. It was common for little groups to form, though especially common for Pepper and Hermione to wander off for ‘secret witches business’, as the boys had dubbed it. It worked well for the group, sparing the boys from painfully intellectual conversations on topics they held no interest in, and the girls from feeling guilty for preferring conversation to whatever game Adam or Harry had come up with that day. Though Crowley would much rather his daughter be home, especially during winter, when his ability to rush to the rescue was dampened by a serpentine lethargy when cold, it was hardly unusual for Harry and Hermione to arrive home after school separately, and was hardly cause for concern. Besides, Between Pepper and Hermione, anyone fool enough to try to cause them trouble was liable to meet karma's cruel side up close and very, painfully, personal. 

Harry had arrived home a whole hour before Hermione, and while Crowley wasn’t fond of his daughter roaming the countryside so freely without magical protection, the thought of being that overprotective sort of father (the sort demanding their perfectly capable daughters hid inside, away from the more parental kinds of fears) kept him silent. His little hellspawn was a witch, and damned powerful in her own right, and between the efforts of a demon, an angel, and a fully trained and grown witch, Hermione was more than aware of how to use her powers to full and terrifying effect when required. He refused to make a fuss.

At least until Hermione hurried inside, carefully avoiding eye contact with her family, and vanishing into her room until dinnertime. This was concerning enough, given that Hermione had never missed an opportunity to talk to them about whatever new thing she'd learned that day, which typically devolved into intellectual debates with Aziraphale until Crowley hissed at them that they could either come eat at the table or have their plates lobbed at their heads. But when he knocked on her door (realising with a jolt of surprise that she had locked it for the first time ever. Oh, sure, he could remedy it in a heartbeat, if not a tad quicker, but he had promised to respect her privacy, and blessed if he wasn't going to try and live up to that promise.

'Hermione, dinner.' Her room was impossibly silent, so silent he wondered if she'd tried a new silencing spell and forgotten the time. It happened rather more regularly than he'd ever expected, given her love of making spells of her own. 

'I'm not hungry.' Her voice was quiet, shaky and broken in a way he'd never heard from her, even on the first day they'd met. 

'Will you tell me what's wrong, pet?'

'I just have a headache. I'm sorry, Dad, I just need to sleep, okay?'

'Okay, but only if you unlock the door. You know how Zira frets about safety exits.' She didn't even snigger, though the Angel had them running escape drills at odd hours last week after reading some statistics on the average time of day for house fires. Zira had been so busy flittering about with panic and protectiveness he'd forgotten to open the front door before trying to race through it, knocking himself out for twenty whole, ridiculous seconds before leaping out of Crowley's arms to lecture them all for huddling around him when they should have been escaping the imaginary fires instead. They'd been laughing about it for a week, at least, whenever his angel couldn't hear them. Only when he heard the soft click of the lock did he turn and walk back to Zira and Harry. 

Though Zira seemed to believe her story, Harry kept shooting worried looks towards Hermione's room, playing with his food more than eating it until Zira reminded him that food was for mouths, not art projects. Not that Crowley could blame the kid, he wasn't eating, either. It didn’t take demonic senses to pick up on the not so subtle reek of _panic fear panic desperation guilt RESOLVE_ clinging to her skin. The idle chatter died away quickly, though Aziraphale tried his hardest to keep morale high. But Crowley excused himself as soon as Zira had the last morsel of food in his mouth, needing to know that his hellion was alright and knowing without a doubt that she wasn't. There was no response to his quiet knock, so he opened the door, eyeing the blue flame dancing in a glass jar that seemed to be acting as a rather odd nightlight.

He was hurt, though entirely unsurprised when she feigned sleep almost perfectly enough to leave him doubting his urge to call her out. Unsure of what else to do, he muttered a ‘you’ll have to talk to me at some point, hellspawn. I love you,’ and left her to it. Harry had tried, too, with the same results, leaving her room looking far too like a kicked and drenched dog than the typically confident boy they knew and loved. The boy spent what had to be the most boring hour of his life staring towards Hermione's room, feet tapping softly against the carpet, so distracted he didn't even notice when Pepper called to make sure Hermione got home safely. The gesture, while sweet, was about as common as Pepper dressing in frilly pink dresses or earnestly declaring a yearning to become a cheerleader. There was a tone to her voice, fear and worry and protectiveness warring for dominance, that made Crowley damn sure she knew exactly what was going on. He'd asked her, of course, but she hadn't even been subtle in evading. He'd at least expected her to believably make the sounds rather than saying 'oh crackle, crackle the phone's playing crackle crackle up, have a great crackle night good-crackle-bye!' and hanging up on him. 

Any other time, he'd laugh and tell her she'd been around Brian and Wensleydale too much. Right now, he couldn't think of anything less hilarious if he tried. 

It didn't take long for the pitiful staring to wear thin, and then Harry was sending himself to bed at the most ridiculously early time imaginable for a child who clearly wasn't even tired. Once Harry had gone to bed, wandering into Hermione’s room to say goodnight and not bothering to come out again (yet another sign that something was very, very wrong), Crowley did the sensible, adult thing and paced the living room, silently fretting as Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth every so often as though trying and failing to think of something to say to make things better. His daughter, his bright, beautiful little hellspawn was scared, and wouldn’t even talk to him! She’d never hidden anything from him before. He didn’t they were that kind of family.

_Were they that kind of family?_

Nobody slept well that night. 

*

Anthony J Crowley was an expert in worrying, with multiple degrees in fretting, anxiety, and overwhelming himself through, in Aziraphale’s words, an impressive talent for making mountains out of molehills. Crowley, more than used to seeing other demons maimed and killed for the most ridiculous of reasons, considered it more a strong instinct for self preservation, and something that had served him incredibly well through the centuries. This, however, did not feel like a molehill, and Aziraphale’s barely concealed worry as he flit around the kitchen making tea was a pretty good sign that Crowley was not, in fact, reading too much into the situation.

Something was very, very wrong. 

Though it was a Saturday, and more often than not Crowley would be sleeping until noon given the opportunity, for the first time in memory, he'd been up and dressed well before Hermione had shuffled out of bed, Harry at her side, not quite touching but close enough to keep her safe. Her eyes were the kind of red that looked painful as Heaven, and as though she'd spent a lot of time crying. Judging by the wet patch on Harry's shoulder, it was a safe bet she hadn't started the day well. 

Apparently, playing with your food was becoming a family habit, and where usually Zira would be chiding them all for not eating, today he seemed just as content to push food about plate, not even bothering with his customary morning cup of tea. The silence, broken only by the ocassional screech of metal on plate, felt rather less like their usual comfortable silences and more like the noise based equivilent of tearing off your clothes and rolling in a pool full of broken glass and used needles.

It was a battle of wills at this point, waiting to see who'd break first. Would Hermione admit defeat and talk, or would Crowley or Zira lose their patience and try to make it happen? Crowley bit his lip to keep himself quiet, unsure of what to say or how to approach the problem. Causing problems? He was your man. Resolving them without making them worse wasn't something he was well known for. 

Sighing loudly, Aziraphale gave up on pretending to eat, clapped his hands, and gave his best impression of a comforting smile at the baffled faces around him. 'We're all going for a walk. Since nobody is hungry, everyone go get dressed. It's a perfect day for a stroll in the woods.'

'I don't feel well.' There was a tremble to Hermione's hands, so violent she had to put down her cutlery and press her hands on the table to try and hide it. 

'Fresh air will do you good, Hermione.' She shook her head.

'I'd like to stay home, please.'

'Nonsense! A quick walk and you'll feel better. We'll all feel better. So no excuses, no refusals, everyone go get dressed.'

'No.'

'Come on, Dad, she's not feeling well. Can't we just let her rest for today? We could stay in and read instead... I know there's that book you've been looking forward t-' A click of angelic fingers, and they were all dressed and ready to go (Crowley, of course, changed his outfit immediately, fighting not to take offense that the love of his life would ever choose to dress him like _that_. 

'Let's go.' Harry bristled at being ignored, but Hermione?

Hermione simply stood and waited by the door, shoulders dropped, head down so her face was hidden by her hair. She looked for all the world like a girl headed to the gallows, not one about to go for a walk with her family. 


	2. Chapter 2

HARRY

Harry was clutching Hermione's hand, their steps in sync in the way that always unnerved Brian and Wensleydale. Brian believed, far too wholeheartedly for their tastes (and in a way that made Pepper launch into the sort of frustrated ranting that meant he kept his opinions to himself whenever she was in earshot) that the pair were secretly one being, and was a little bit (monumentally) scared they'd wind up being aliens. The memory of Brian flailing and pacing, demanding they at least do him the courtesy of no probing when their conquering forces arrived usually brought at least a smile.

Harry didn't stop frowning. Though they walked, and rode, far harder and longer journeys daily, Hermione's breath was already coming in short, sharp huffs, like they'd been walking for hours, all uphill, on a particularly craggy and trip-hazardy kind of a mountain. It wasn't that she was scared, necessarily. He knew what scared looked like on his twin, and though there were traces there under the surface, this was the sort of broken determination he'd fallen to whenever he'd had to hold his tongue against the Dursleys. This was survival. 

Harry loved his dad. Zira had literally rescued him from his own version of Hell, and given him the best family in the world. But right now, he hated the angel a little for refusing to take a simple 'no' for an answer. Crowley was walking slowly behind them, trudging along in a way that spoke of bone deep aches being forcefully ignored for the greater good of avoiding another argument. Zira shouldn't be dragging a snake out into the snow! He shouldn't be forcing Hermione to do something she so vehmently opposed. He should be kind. _Angels should be kind._

He should listen. That's all Harry had to do, after all. He'd knocked, walked in, curled up on the bed and hugged her without saying a word. Sometimes you couldn't rush words, especially the hard ones, and all Zira was doing was making sure Hermione wouldn't tell him anything. Crowley, perhaps, but given he'd fallen in line without a single objection, Harry rather thought his twin was going to give a clear demonstration on how stubborn she could truly be. 

He'd never seen her cry before, but once she'd started, she couldn't stop. It wasn't like in the movies, where the heroine dabs at a lone tear and looks pretty and majestic the whole time. Hermione sobbed, heaving broken things that left her choking for air and unable to speak, honking her nose loudly against tissues he kept having to frantically hand her because in that moment, the girl who never got sick was about 80% snot and devastation. 

_Go-Sa-Someone,_ but if Brian and Wensleydale were creeped out by her before, they'd be downright terrified now. It was hard to keep the sighing to a minimum, so instead, he slowed his steps, not even taking pleasure in Zira's increasing frustration. Beside him, his twin mirrored his actions, shooting him a grateful smile barely visible to the human eye.

'Hermione, Harry, _come on_ , the sooner we walk, the sooner we go back home and you can sulk in your room to your heart's content.' Harry wasn't as observant as his sister, or Pepper, but he knew his sister better than anyone else in the world. She knew Crowley and Aziraphale were worried (hell, _he_ was worried, and knew she knew it), worried enough that her father had agreed to go out for a walk. In the snow. Like the warm-blooded human he most certainly was not. She, like Harry himself, simply had no idea how to solve the glaringly obvious problem. 

Or perhaps, she did. 

'Can we walk to town instead, please, Zira? I don't want to go to the woods. Maybe we could get hot chocolate while we're there, or go to the bookstore?' Aziraphale shot her a look, the sort of look he got whenever someone said something vague and unhelpful that was somehow too much information anyway, shook his head, and picked up his pace towards the treeline. 

Harry tugged her hand slightly, and then stopped, barking out a 'I don't want to go in there! It's cold, I'm tired, and Crowley shouldn't even be out in this weather. You go for a walk if you want to, but we're going home' so loud and unexpected that Zira stumbled and nearly fell as he spun around to stare at them. 

'No.'

'Excuse me?'

'I said no, Harry. We're going, and that's final. Now, onwards.' Harry very pointedly didn't move, so Hermione stayed at his side, squeezing his hand a little tighter and gnawing on her lower lip like she was declaring a rather brutal blood feud against it. Crowley cleared his throat.

'Angel, I know what you're trying to do here, and we both know it's not going to work. Hellspawn, we're worried. I know something's wrong. Very, very wrong. I can feel it. We're not angry, and we're not going to be, are we angel?' He very pointedly did not give Aziraphale a moment to respond, likely because it was rather obvious to anyone with eyes (and probably any earthworms in the vicinity, too) that the angel was already angry and more than willing to get even angrier given the opportunity. 'We just want to help you. So let's compromise, yeah? Hermione, if we go home, if we turn around right now, and go home, will you tell us what's going on?' Her eyes widened in alarm. Rock, meet hard place. If they went into the woods, they'd find out. If they went home, they'd find out. Her hand was shaking in his, her breath so barely there it was a wonder she was still standing. Harry felt his temper fray.

'Why can't you just leave her the hell alone? For fucks sake, just leave her alone! She doesn't want to go for a goddamn walk. She doesn't want to talk right now, so back the fuck off! Do you really think forcing her to do what you want makes you any better than the Grangers?' It was a terrible thing to say, and Harry felt a surge of regret that felt like staggering without even moving at all, like his heart had just scrunched itself into a teensy ball of guilt and set off on a journey towards his toes, ready to build itself a cabin around his toenails and live out its days as a particularly smooshed hermit. Crowley's eyes were blown wide in surprise and hurt, and he didn't doubt Aziraphale would be looking just as wounded by the comparison. Even Hermione was staring at him in shock. He wanted to apologise, to tell them he loved them and he didn't really mean it, but he also wanted them to stop making Hermione look like the world was about to end. In the end, he'd always choose Hermione. 

Before he could figure out how to end all the staring, preferably in a way that led them to turn around and go home, he felt his feet rising from the snow covered ground, watched Hermione rise, too, squeaking softly in surprise. 'Put us down, Aziraphale.' Instead of replying, his father strode towards the treeline, their suddenly frozen bodies following along behind him. 

'Angel! Angel, that's enough now. I know you're angry, I get it, but this isn't going to make anything better. Stop. Let's go home. Harry's right, we're not going to force Hermione to do anything she doesn't want to do, alright?' Harry appreciated the effort, late though it might be. 

'ANGEL!' There was surprise, a little hurt, to Crowley's shout, and then the demon came bobbing into view, feet above the ground, expression as close to murderous as Harry had ever seen him. He was surprised when, instead of trying to escape, Crowley's efforts focused on freeing Harry and Hermione. He could feel it, Crowley's magic curling like snakes around the tingling buzz of Aziraphale's work, saw Hermione, crying silently, felt the lightning strike burn of her powers struggling and failing to break free. He added his own to the mix immediately. 'It's going to be okay, Mya. I promise you.' She shook her head at Crowley's words, and cried a little harder.

Harry had some definite plans to destroy his father's favourite first editions, the sort of destruction that neither angelic nor demonic efforts could repair. Nobody made his twin cry. 

Nobody. 

*

It felt like they'd been dragged along behind Aziraphale for a lifetime, each trying and failing to break free, Crowley devolving into hissed curses that would normally cheer Harry up immensely- his father was rather inventive with his cursing. But the fact his Dad had so clearly warded his efforts against demonic intervention was more than a little intimidating. He'd seen them bicker and carry on, of course, and he knew they fought sometimes- but only after he and Hermione were in bed. This? This was new, the sort of new that he'd rather never deal with ever again, thank you very much. Crowley's eyes shone with malice towards his husband, and it was clear the resulting row would be brutal. 

The woods were beautiful in the snow, of course. The light hitting just so left patterns, made the world sparkle like every tree and piece of ground had been rolled in sugar. On any other day, Harry would be thrilled for the chance to go exploring with his family. This wasn't _really_ exploring, though, and it was hard to find anything to enjoy in being literally dragged about the countryside by a very grumpy angel. Aziraphale was like a hunting dog; judging by the way Hermione grew increasingly more desperate in her efforts to escape, he seemed to have honed in on exactly where they shouldn't go. 

'Angel, enough.' Finally, _finally_ , Aziraphale stopped, turning to look at Crowley, eyes squinched as though he was in physical pain from all the ridiculousness of the morning. Or, perhaps, holding three people hostage was taking rather a lot of effort. Harry hoped it hurt, and then felt another wave of guilt that scrunched his heart even tighter. 

'What do you feel, Crowley?' That... was not the question Harry had expected, and judging by the incredulous staring, it seemed Crowley hadn't seen it coming, either. The silence stretched onwards, uneven and awkward the way Dudley's jumpers used to stretch over his belly whenever he refused to admit he needed the larger sized ones.

'Unbridled fucking rage, if I'm being honest.'

'Not you, you silly serpent! Focus!' Harry glanced towards Hermione. She looked pale, sickly, and utterly, utterly emotionless. She'd stopped struggling against the spell holding her, just stared ahead blankly as though she was a frozen scene in a movie, or like she'd just popped out of her corporeal form for a moment, and the sight was more terrifying than anything the Dursley's had ever scared him with. 

'Hermione.' The whisper caught Crowley's attention, his gaze shifting to Hermione even as his efforts to free them grew more desperate. 

'You're hurting her Angel, you need to stop this. Look at her! Look at your daughter, and fucking stop this tantrum!' But there was something to his tone now, something hidden below the panic, like he'd figured out exactly what Aziraphale was talking about, but was trying his hardest to pretend it wasn't there. Like he'd pick a million fights with his husband if it distracted them both from the elephant in the room. It was, if Harry were being honest, something eerily similar to fear. It was reflected in Aziraphale, too, in the way he looked more devastated than angry, like the foundations of the world had been wrenched from underfoot, and he was scrambling to find something to hold onto. 

'What did you do, Hermione?' Aziraphale's focus was all for her now, but Hermione didn't answer, not even when Aziraphale reached forward to delicately cup her face in his hands. 'What have you done, little one?' As though realising she wouldn't, couldn't, answer, the angel huffed out a sigh, lowering his hands before turning and striding away, his three unwilling passengers bobbing along after him. 

Harry had known what they'd find when they floated into the clearing Aziraphale marched them into, of course. He even knew exactly what Hermione had done to cause it. But seeing the man, curled inwards, screaming silently and thrashing about on snow melted and stained with blood, contorting himself like he was being pulled apart by something they couldn't see was not the sort of thing you could ever really prepare yourself to see. 

It took Harry a moment to realise Aziraphale had dropped them in his shock. 


	3. Chapter 3

HERMIONE (YESTERDAY)

Friday afternoons were the best of the afternoons, in Hermione's not-so-humble opinion. After all, they were moments of complete and utter freedom, filled with the joy that only comes from finding yourself on the cusp of the longest possible time before being forced back into another stupid day of school with teachers who called you a _problem child_ because you were smarter than they were. It wasn't Hermione's fault that she didn't need her teacher to provide spoken information at the slowest speeds known to mankind! Or that she could read without help, and at speeds that meant she could read through more than an entire page before her teacher was partway through the first sentence. And it wasn't her fault, or her problem, if her teacher was handing out worksheets filled with typos and incorrect questions! What was she meant to do, let the dullards she shared classes with get stupider? Mrs Airs (better known as Mrs Arse in honour of her capacity to be a raging asshole), had been particularly brutal in defense of her shitty craftsmanship, and the ten minute lunch-break sermon was still ringing in Hermione's ears like the sort of tinnitus that made people shoot themselves in the face to make it stop. 

Grabbing her bike and getting the hell away didn't make her feel better, not really. And Pepper's ranting in solidarity was only making her headache worse. Pepper was right, of course. Crowley would storm the school immediately to hear his daughter had been yelled at. He'd rage and terrorise the adults until Mrs Arse was too scared to yell ever again. But then, she'd just start picking on some other student, and maybe they wouldn't have a parent who'd storm the school like a castle and wage war for them. It _hurt_ , damn it, and the idea of passing that kind of hurt onto somebody else sat uncomfortable in her gut. No, she wouldn't, couldn't, tell Crowley. The best part of having Pepper as a best friend was that she understood. She didn't like it, but contented herself with planning a half dozen vengeance schemes, three of which ended with Arse being sent skyward, either through being duct taped to a rocket, or used as rather mushy, unpleasant fireworks (there was a reason Pepper and Crowley got along so well, after all). 

Honestly, Hermione had the best friends. 

It was an unspoken rule on days like these that the pair would ride until the rage faded to a weary simmer, and Hermione could go home without accidentally saying something to either let her fathers (or worse, Harry) know there was a problem, or to start a fight with them in a fit of pique. The route was familiar as a birth mark, down the lane, towards the farmland, and off towards the military base, with an eventual veering left to circle back home again. Sometimes they found injured animals, or something suitably distracting, and barely needed to travel. The outskirts of Tadfield were beautiful, but close enough to a motorway that there was a seemingly unending stream of injured or poorly wildlife, or pets, to be healed. Generally, a quick spell was all that was needed to set things to rights, but sometimes, a more hands-on approach was required. Hermione Crowley was rather proud that she never shied away from getting her hands dirty if it meant helping someone. 

So of course, when she heard the screaming, she sped up, slamming right instead of their traditional left and chasing the sound, the sound of Pepper cursing and following a sort of background soundtrack to the sudden fluttering of Hermione's heart. Having spent so long around The Them, Hermione knew that there were countless types of screams, many of which were joyful, positive things. _This_ scream was not joyful. It was the sort of scream Hermione had made herself sometimes, before Crowley. It was terror.

Worse, it was a _child's_ terror. A child who was screaming 'no', and 'help me', and 'let me go' with the sort of desperation that Hermione knew all too well. And she'd be damned before she let any other child feel that way on her watch. She almost lost control of her bike taking a sharp corner, but the second she righted herself, Hermione growled. A white van. A man, struggling to drag a little girl into the van. A little girl who looked enragingly similar to Heather Michaels. Hermione's bike, inexplicably, moved faster, it felt like one second she was too far away, the next she was right there, leaping and crash tackling the man in a way that would have made Harry incredibly proud, before staggering up and dragging Heather out of his reach. The girl was sobbing, clutching to her desperately, and Hermione picked her up absently, and struggled to calm her down. The man didn't move. 

Couldn't move, more accurately. She'd kneed him rather hard on the way down, and he seemed to be far more interested in clutching bruised testicles than running away. Pepper screeched to a halt beside them. 

'Hermione, are you alright?' She nodded, staring at the man. The problem with living with angels and demons was that sooner or later, you picked up some of their habits. Not fully; after all, human brains were far squishier than their celestial and supernatural equivalents. So while Crowley and Zira could have gotten the entire vile story in a heartbeat, Hermione caught more than enough to leave her baring her teeth at the man in instinctive fury. 

He was too preoccupied to notice. 

Clutching Heather more tightly, Hermione forced herself to focus, to push her magic outwards and into the man's brain, not bothering to be gentle in her demand for answers. It worked, though as the nausea took hold, she rather wished it hadn't. Because she saw not just Heather, not just the outline of a horrible plan for her final hours, but other children, terrified and forgotten, a few faces she'd seen on milk cartons or news reports lost to the latest gossip about celebrities. He was a hunter, the way rich assholes with guns in animal sanctuaries were hunters- he was a fucking coward who liked to watch things die and take home a trophy, but without ever encountering a threat to his own safety. 

_Serial killer,_ her mind supplied helpfully. _Though they make up 0.0006% of the population of America, serial killers are incredibly rare in England, with only 34 known to have existed since Jack the Ripper. Possibly now 35,_ her mind corrected automatically, _and statistically, he will keep killing until someone stops him, likely escalating the brutality inflicted on others as he continues._

And as soon as he left them, he'd simply find someone else.

Hermione was usually calm, but the calm that settled over her at that thought was the dangerous kind, a kind she'd never experienced before. Dropping a kiss to the top of Heather's head, she moved towards Pepper, smiling slightly. 'Take Heather home.'

'Hermione...' Pepper faltered, seemed to look into Hermione's eyes and shudder slightly at whatever she saw there before looking to the ground as quickly as possible. Hermione didn't really care about whatever Pepper had tried and failed to say, she just needed Pepper to do as she'd been asked and get Heather to safety. 

'It'll be okay.' And it would. _'I'll be okay._ We're just going to have a very polite conversation, and then he's going to surrender at the nearest police station. That's all.' She hefted Heather onto the handlebars of Pepper's bike, hoping the smile she wore would look real enough to fool the younger girl. It certainly wasn't fooling Pepper. Not that Pepper could say anything about it without risking setting off more tears. 

Pepper had never been particularly comfortable with crying, after all. Her mother always called it an act of feminine manipulation, and though Pepper wasn't sure she agreed, the accusation had been enough to curb her of the habit. So instead, shooting a final worried glance at Hermione, she told Heather to hold on tightly, and began following the girl's directions, moving as quickly as possible without jostling the still weepy girl. When they were out of sight, Hermione turned and calmly stored her bike in the back of the van. 

She'd learned early how to confound those around her, not that it was a skill you could use often. Human minds had a habit of developing immunity. She didn't need to wave her hands about, or do anything beyond concentrate, and he was looking up at her, baffled and uncertain. Even the memory of the pain he'd been so distracted by was muted, easy to overlook, though as he glanced worriedly around, she realised she should have made him stand up before mind-whammying the bastard.

'Are you ready to go? You said you'd give me a ride home, Mister.' he grinned, the sort of horrible, predatory grin Hermione knew she'd be seeing in her nightmares, probably for the rest of her life, and the hair on the back of her neck slammed to attention as she realised that smile was one of the final things Heather would have seen. It was hard to keep her own smile oblivious and non-threatening as he ushered her into the passenger seat of his van, chattering about whatever came to mind, and closing the door with a slam that shook the whole van. The locks clicked loudly as he settled into his own seat, and he turned to smile at her again as he turned the key in the ignition. 

'Just gotta make a quick detour first.'

'That's okay!' She smiled when he drove them into the woods. 

*

Hermione hadn't really done anything bad before. Well, that wasn't _strictly_ true. She had done quite a few things that Aziraphale would lecture her for if he knew about them (unlike her twin, she knew better than to actually get caught by the angel), she'd just never done anything deliberately bad _using magic_. A few pranks, sure, and a few moments of self defense, but nothing with the conscious intention to cause pain or harm. She'd rather use her fists, or her intelligence to solve problems. Using magic felt like cheating, and if there was one thing Hermione Crowley hated, it was cheaters. Besides, it seemed wrong to use her powers the way she was planning to use them. They were a gift, and she was about to use them as a weapon to punish someone. Surely it would be better to find another, mundane way?

She shivered as her mind finally caught up to her rage. Could she actually do this? For all the 'raised by a demon' business, she was still, at heart, obnoxiously kind (Crowley's words, of course). She _helped_ , for Hell's sake. She rescued animals, she didn't kill them. And while she'd slammed the occasional bully into trees, she hadn't actually meant to do it, it just sort of happened. Could she truly, honestly, choose to cause another human being harm? Her utterly false smile fell away, and she turned quickly to look out the window, angling her face so the man wouldn't see her efforts to force her smile back into place.

She was being foolish. Magic was a gift for Aziraphale and Crowley, too, but while they hadn't spelled out what had happened to the Dursleys and the Grangers, she could read between the lines well enough to know that neither family's lives were improving for having encountered the supernatural. And Adam had told them enough about the apocalypse-that-wasn't to prove that, even if you assumed demons were bad (and, having been rescued by one, Hermione firmly disbelieved the notion) angels weren't above using their gifts to make lives miserable for those who they felt deserved it, either. Maybe, just maybe, those comics Adam loved had a point. Maybe it was less about good and bad. Maybe with great power came great responsibility, and the need to protect those who were vulnerable. 

The man driving them deeper into the darkness was not a victim, he was a predator that had hurt children before. He'd killed them, and even only spending seconds in the cesspool he called a mind proved they weren't the quick and merciful kind of deaths. He'd have killed Heather if Hermione hadn't intervened, and if she let him go?

Hermione had the sneaking suspicion she couldn't live with herself if he took another child. _When_ he took another child.

But magic or not, what the hell could she do to him? Tempting though it might be, killing him probably wasn't something she was capable of. 

She could make him take her to Zira and her father, but really, what would they do? Oh, sure, Crowley would want to do a lot of things, but Aziraphale? He wouldn't let him. He'd march the man down to the police and leave it at that. But if there was one thing Hermione knew, it was not to trust the people meant to protect you. She'd learned it with her biological family. She'd learned it from all of her teachers. 

And it's not like her old neighbours hadn't ever called the police. Aside from a few 'maybe try harder not to antagonise him' remarks, they didn't exactly _do_ much, even when it was pretty obvious she was cradling a broken arm and had an imprint of her biological father's ring on her face. No, the police were definitely not an option.

Which left one young witch to deal with the problem.

 _Fuck_.

*

As the van slowed to a stop, her mind rabbited between ideas about what the fuck to do, her fingers dancing against the arm rest as she fought to calm her growing anxiety and focus on the problem at hand. She needed to buy herself some time to make a proper plan. A few minutes, and she'd be fine. She could do this.

A meaty hand wrapped around her throat. 

It wasn't that it hurt, though it definitely did, nor that she couldn't breathe, terrifying though it was. It was the way he forced her to look at him- the way he tried to force his tongue down her throat- that left rational thought lost behind a sea of red. 

A clap like thunder shook the van. 

She didn't even know what she'd done. Not really. There was no incantation, nothing to make her think she'd just used her magic, just an all consuming desire to make him feel every shred of terror he'd forced onto the other children. Onto her _._ And then he was throwing himself back, fumbling with the lock of his door before almost falling out of the van and onto the snow. For a moment, she was too startled and too grateful to breathe to even think to move, but as he ran from the van, morbid curiosity won out, and she hurried to follow, her shaking legs barely able to hold her up. By the time she found him again, he was waving a pocket knife around, though she teleported it to herself easily enough. He was babbling, begging and pleading for mercy, lunging forward to grab at her leg, holding on for grim death as though she could stop what was happening. 

As if she _would_ stop it. 

'Please, help me.'

'No.' He looked at her, not quite able to stop his monologue even as he flinched away from her in shock at her outburst. 'You will stay here until you're ready to confess to the police.'

'I don't wanna die!' he wailed, and she growled.

'They didn't want to die, and you didn't care about that, did you? I'll give you just as much mercy as you gave to them: none. _You will stay._ ' There was a crawl along her spine, a tingle of magic that, frankly, scared the hell out of her. And then, as the man began thrashing and wailing, slamming himself backwards into the snow, Hermione ran towards her home, oblivious to the tears slowly freezing upon her skin. 


	4. Chapter 4

CROWLEY

He knew he called her hellspawn, but this? This was unexpected. So too was the disgusted glance she spared the man before calmly- too fucking calmly- looking away, as though there was absolutely nothing wrong. A tiny part of him was relieved she'd snapped back into focus once more. The rest was staying in 'utterly horrified, baffled, and frozen in place by the sheer enormity of the clusterfuck before him'. 

'Who is he, Hermione?' Aziraphale's voice sounded wrecked. Not the wrecked of too much good living, the sort that sounded like he'd dragged his voice down a particularly rocky beach (the sharp sort of rocky, not the nice, smooth round rocks sort), then off for a jaunt through a cluster of thorny shrubbery, before hurling it off a cliff to be slammed against jagged outcrops during a violent storm. And then gargling some rusted nails just to be thorough). 

'One of ours.' He could feel the slick, oily residue of wickedness on the man, no matter how hysterical and almost child-like he was in his pleading. 'More important question: who the fuck are the kids?' Even Hermione looked confused by the question. Was it possible she couldn't see what she'd done? Huffing out a sigh, he tapped a finger to Hermione's forehead, and then Harry's when the boy gave him the sort of stern look that meant he'd been spending far too long around Aziraphale. Hermione didn't even have the courtesy to gasp at the sight of a group of small, angry children seeming to tear at the man as they shrieked wordlessly. Instead, she simply tilted her head and studied the almost translucent children with a detached sort of interest that left dread crawling along Crowley's spine.

'If I had to guess... illusions of his victims forcing him into some extremely unpleasant empathy lessons.' The slight hesitance to her voice was the closest Crowley thought he'd get to feeling relieved in the near future. Clearly, she hadn't known what she'd done, even if she didn't seem the slightest bit sorry to have brought it about. Her ignorance was an infinitesimally small blessing, but he'd take what he could get right now. 

'Okay... okay.' Aziraphale was shaking, hands clenched into fists at his sides, pale as a corpse and just about as happy as one as he reluctantly stepped towards the man. 'We can fix this.'

'No.' Hermione moved, too fast to be entirely human, like he'd blinked and she was suddenly between Aziraphale and the man ( _her victim,_ his mind supplied rather pointedly), her hands raised defensively. 'He can leave when he's ready to surrender to the police and tell them everything.' Her gaze shifted to the man, and she bared her teeth the way he'd seen wolves do in the documentary she'd watched eighteen times last week (she said she'd found their howls soothing). The man scuttled back and away from her instantly, leaving red stains in the barely surviving snow around him. 'Like where their bodies are, for a fucking start.'

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie, his best scowl in place, but Crowley grabbed his arm, yanked him back before the lecture could begin. 'Okay, let's... let's _all_ calm down here, okay? Let's start with how the Heaven you stumbled onto a serial killer?'

A flicker of emotion, something rather like nausea, and then her expression was a blank canvas once more. 'I followed the sound of Heather's screaming.'

Oh. Of fucking course she'd intervened. How could she not? This was the girl who'd nearly been hit by cars far more often than he'd like to consider, just because she'd seen an animal struggling on the road. The girl who'd somehow smuggled an injured cow into the house when a healing hadn't taken to her satisfaction.

The girl who'd accidentally thrown a peer into a tree for killing a nest of baby snakes, and adopted the sole survivor.

It was an inescapable conclusion Hermione Crowley would run towards the screams instead of away, his own little angel of broken creatures too kind-hearted not to risk her life in hopes of helping another. He closed his eyes, willed the surge of conflicting emotions to settle the fuck down and let him try and deal with this situation before Aziraphale tried lecturing again, and focused on the next most important question. 

'Is she okay?'

Crowley opened his eyes in time to see Hermione shoot him the sort of look that asked if he were an idiot, with a heaping side of silent judgement and mockery thrown in for good measure. 'Of course.'

'I'm glad.'

'WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL THE POLICE?' He'd need to silence Aziraphale soon, no doubt, going by the increase in judgmental loathing in her expression, and the way her hair seemed to be creeping outwards as though about to start looming threateningly. Could hair be sentient enough to hex someone? Crowley had the uncomfortable suspicion they'd soon find out.

'Oh, yeah, they're bloody helpful. How often did they show up at the Dursley's, Harry?'

'Few times. Nothing came of it.' He hadn't realised Harry had learned how to add such affable sarcasm to his tone, like death by a thousand paper cuts (Crowley pointedly ignored the way he flinched at even the metaphorical thought of death) rather than Hermione's tendency towards metaphorical death by blunt force trauma (another flinch, carefully ignored). For her part, Hermione quirked an eyebrow, just slightly, but it still seemed more than enough to sneer 'see, I fucking told you so' and launch into a monologue about the idiocy of Aziraphale's celestial family tree. 

She'd perhaps spent a little too long around Crowley, truth be told. Watching her struggle to reign in her temper, he could at least be grateful that she'd been spending time around Aziraphale, too. Her voice softened, though it still sounded ever so slightly like she was trying to explain the obvious to someone who refused to get the point. 'They weren't gonna help, and you know it, Aziraphale.'

The angel stomped his foot almost petulantly. 'They're meant to!'

Hermione's hair seemed to puff up like an angry cat as she threw up her hands in exasperation, dropping them quickly as an unplanned burst of magic sent her family stumbling back and away from her. _She shouldn't be that powerful. What the Heaven are we raising?_ And oh, did the sudden surge of self-loathing burn to the heart of him. Oblivious to her father's existential crises, she shrugged almost helplessly, and kept talking like she wasn't breaking their goddamned hearts with every sarcasm dripping word. 'Surely by now you've realised this is an imperfect world? What those in power are meant to do, and what they actually do, are in no way similar.' There was something in her eyes. Maybe it was the surety in which she knew Harry wouldn't have positive stories to tell, or maybe it was the ghosts of her own shitty experiences glinting in the dappled light, but either way, Crowley had the sudden mad urge to find every cop his kids had ever interacted with and rip out their more vital organs. 

'Then you should have called us.'

'And what would _you_ do, Aziraphale? Give him a stern talking to?' Crowley winced at her tone, but he had to admit, she had a point. His angel was hardly fond of getting his hands dirty. For his part, the angel stood, opening and closing his mouth, expression seeming stuck somewhere between indignation, horror, and utter confusion.

Crowley could relate.

Now all he needed to do was figure out what the Heaven to do to fix the problem.

*

They'd been going over the issue for what felt like forever.

Crowley was rather certain that the months he'd spent on a smelly, leaky, cramped boat on the trip from England to America (Hell had punished him with the inability to travel any other way than mortal after Hastur accused him of an overindulgence towards magic use. He'd made the toady bastard shit bats for a month in retaliation) had felt faster and less painful than the minutes dragging on between his family, Aziraphale hurling arguments like axes, and Hermione breaking them like chocolate bars.

'HE COULD DIE!'

'Is that so bad, though? I mean, really? If he dies, doesn't that just mean there's a whole lot of children pointedly being not murdered? Isn't that the good in this scenario? Pretty sure that means she's on the side of the angels...' Aziraphale turned towards Harry's politely curious tone wearing the sort of horrified expression that would be funny if it weren't happening in front of a barely coherent, potentially dying man surrounded by the angriest primary schoolers known to mankind.

'Harry James Potter-Fell, we do not condone murder!'

'Technically, it would be self defense, not murder. He _did_ try to kill me.' The growl that sounded in the clearing was very clearly not human, and loud enough to see the man scrambling back and away from the tall, red haired demon fighting the urge to remove his head from his mortal body.

'What. Happened?' Even Hermione took a step back, and her instinctive fear reminded him painfully of the girl she'd been when he'd found her. His heart, demonic though it might be, clenched brutally tightly at the idea of his hellion being afraid of him. Forcing himself to calm down, he muttered an 'I'm sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to frighten you. But I need you to tell me what happened' and hoped she could read between the frays in his emotions. That Harry moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her and looking like he wanted nothing more than to kick the tragic looking mortal while he was close enough to do so did not bode well. 

If demons could have aneurysms from sheer rage, Crowley would be in a world of trouble. Thankfully, demons _couldn't_ have aneurysms from sheer rage, so other than a menacing hiss filled with the promise of unholy retribution (the sort to leave a terrified mortal soiling their pants quite spectacularly), he felt he'd handled himself pretty well. Beside him, Aziraphale was frozen, at least beyond a shaking in his hands that seemed to be growing more pronounced the longer his silence dragged on. There was a twitch to his eye, too, and Crowley could imagine him as a computer trying and failing to reboot. If they were all very, very lucky, the silence would last long enough to figure out a way out of this mess that did not involve splattering the innards of a serial killer like modern art in the countryside. 

'Okay.' The twins looked to him in unison, as though waiting for the end of a sentence he hadn't quite figured out yet. 'So let me see if I have this straight: Aziraphale will not be happy to leave the mortal to freeze to death in screamy contemplation. Hermione will not be happy if said mortal is not forced towards some measure of repentance.'

'Essentially.' Harry's tone was more amused than anything, and Crowley felt his lips curling towards a smile before he reminded himself it was very wrong to smile at the place his daughter could have been murdered and was possibly committing a rather long-lasting retaliatory murder as a result. The reminder of a hand wrapped around Hermione's throat was more than enough to refocus him to the situation at hand. 

'Compromise: we force him to tell the police everything. We force the police to do their jobs. He goes to jail for a lovely long time and is too afraid to ever leave the safety of a cell, and then spends an afterlife on the racks. Agreed?'

'If they see him now, he can plead insanity.' Harry, bless him, had made note of the teensy little detail he'd rather hoped they'd missed (judging from the look of horror flittering on Hermione's face, he'd had a 50% success rate, at least). Because oh, sure, he would say whatever it took to get Hermione to let the man go, but he'd be blessed if he let the man who tried to hurt his daughter survive overly long once Hermione was safely home again. 

'Okay, fine. We'll heal him up- okay, no, no, scratch that- we'll hide the injuries, not heal them.' He'd raised his hands as Hermione's hair began to spark threateningly in his direction, leaping towards the nearest retreat point and hoping for the best. 'We'll make sure there's not a hint of crazy to him, okay? It's not like I can't hide from the mortals as needed. But Mya, darling, if he dies out here, you're walking the same path he walked, even if it's for far better reasons. And that's not something I can allow. So I need you to let me help you, alright? Please, Miss Hiss, let me take this burden for you. He will suffer- he tried to hurt you, I promise you, I will make him suffer. But I need you to let him go. Let the illusions drop, and let me take him to the police. If he dies out here, those families will never know what happened to their kids. That's what you want here, I know that. For him to never hurt anyone again, and for those families to get closure. Let me help you make that happen, Hermione.'

The figures paused in their attack, turning and studying him in a frankly intimidating mirror of Hermione's scrutiny. And then, they were gone, Hermione swaying slightly at the sudden shift in her magical energy. Aziraphale was looking as though he was starting to rally, so Crowley clapped his hands, plastered on a smile that exactly nobody believed, and moved to hug his kids. And if he hugged them more tightly than usual, neither seemed to mind. They were too busy clinging to him just as hard. 

It was the work of moments to transport his family home, and then, with a final kiss to Hermione and Harry's brows, he hurried away to get his hands dirty. 


	5. Chapter 5

AZIRAPHALE

Crowley had given him a fond if worried look, before bustling back into the snow. It was the sort of look that spoke volumes in a language Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to understand right now, not when every good and virtuous part of himself was wailing in revulsion and horror and demanding something be done to set things to rights. But what, really, could he do? Harry and Hermione were bundled together, hugging each other almost brutally tightly, as though the idea of letting go was inconceivable to them. Any other time, he'd find it adorable. He'd remind them to change out of their cold, wet clothes before they caught a chill, magic them all a cup of hot chocolate with more whipped cream than should be allowed, and settle his children in front of the fire to warm themselves up. He'd probably even read to them, or tell them a story from his time thwarting evil wiles. 

Hermione had always seemed to love those stories. Or had she just loved the chance to learn to be more cunning and cruel?

No. He wouldn't, couldn't, think that of his child.

But they weren't children, were they? Not really. _Children_ were incapable of the actions Hermione had taken. _Children_ were innocent. And it seemed Harry was more than happy to follow along in Hermione's footsteps if given the opportunity. So while the urge to nurture, and to resume their lives as they were before Hermione stormed home (before that, really. Before Hermione heard a scream and went gleefully running to the dark side in response) was there, it was far too easy to ignore. Still, he wasn't sure how to break the silence growing ever more tense between them, and the realisation he did not know how to talk to his children broke the heart he hadn't even known existed in celestial beings. 

Harry was nudging Hermione with his shoulder, gently enough that Aziraphale wondered if the girl could even feel it through all the layers of winter gear. Clearly, though, she could. Shooting her twin a nod and a reluctant sort of a smile, she squared her shoulders and looked towards Aziraphale, the smile falling away to nervous grimacing. Her hand reached out to clutch Harry's tightly. 'Zira... I-'

He was gone before she could finish her thought. 

Oh, he could read the thought easily enough. But 'I'm sorry' seemed like a rather inane thing to say after an attempted murder. And it was clear she was not sorry about causing harm to the human, just sorry her actions upset her family. No, he didn't want to hear it. If she felt that coldness bred compassion, there was nothing whatsoever she could say that wouldn't simply make him angrier.

And Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, was angrier than he had ever been. Angrier even than when he'd watched Crowley (in angelic disguise) being dragged away, his muffled shouts a warning to Aziraphale, rather than a cry for help. He'd never thought he'd be capable of anger beyond the rage he'd felt to see the denizens of Hell gather to murder his beloved, but here they were. 

And worse, it wasn't even Heaven or Hell responsible. It was a child. A mortal, vindictive, monstrous child who he'd wholeheartedly believed was good. A child he _loved._

Oh, he knew that he didn't only love the just and righteous- he wouldn't be living with a demon were that so. But even at his worst, Crowley had never resorted to the sort of brutality Hermione had fallen to. His evil was the sort dedicated to minor inconveniences- even if he _had_ taken credit for some of humanity's worst moments, he'd never in a million years actually deliberately orchestrate genuine human misery. Crowley had always said humans were prone to far worse evils than demons could manage, but Aziraphale had always just assumed he was being melodramatic, or trying to save face. Humans were capable of wickedness, certainly, but worse than the cruelties of Hell?

It had seemed so impossible. Not so much now, though.

Originally, he'd planned to settle into the bookshop and read, but the moment he arrived, he knew it wouldn't help. Not really. Though normally he disagreed with the idea of self denial on the whole, he told himself that the greyscale that had descended upon the world was making it difficult to read, or to retain what he'd read. It was worse than the absolute worst nights of drinking he'd partaken in; his brain was a sodden, hazed mess, like someone had dumped a winter's ocean between his ears and expected him to still carry on about his day. But the truth was that the thought of sitting in stillness and contemplation was abhorrent to the part of him desperate to run away and keep on running. So instead, he went on a hunt for the perfect crepe. Not because he was hungry; God knew he'd rather not eat anytime soon, not with the thought of that poor, desperate man in the forefront of his memory, but merely for a reason to make his way to France and begin wandering without alarming the humans, his mind far more focused on England than the variety of foods he was sampling. 

Once the last cafe had closed its doors, and there was no place left to walk to, or energy left to try to think of somewhere else to try, Aziraphale reluctantly went home, content in the knowledge that if Harry and Hermione weren't already asleep, they wouldn't come out to try and talk. 

Maybe tomorrow he'd be ready to try. But not tonight. Not until the ocean had receded.

*

The sight of Crowley sitting in his usual chair, staring at the library as though willing it to combust was hardly the peace and quiet he'd expected. Aziraphale froze a moment, before shaking off the surprise and clearing his throat softly. 'I thought you'd be asleep by now.'

Crowley's gaze moved slowly- painfully slowly, like a serpent waking at the end of winter, or an anaconda trying not to startle away its prey- towards him, the murderous expression not lessening in the slightest. 'Where the Heaven have you been?'

Anaconda, then.

It didn't seem like Crowley was particularly interested in a response to the question, given he'd continued before Aziraphale could even open his mouth. 'You know, I figured, while I went to deal with the man _who tried to murder our daughter_ , that you would keep our children safe. That you'd do something other than piss off and abandon them. You left them, angel. You left our children here alone on what has to be one of the worst days of their lives. I got home to Hermione absolutely devastated, and half your bloody library in ashes. I don't even know what Harry did to them, but I couldn't get them all back.'

Oh.

Aziraphale looked towards his library, noting the empty spaces with a huff. 'We'll figure out how to salvage them in the morning.'

'In the... are you bloody serious Aziraphale? _That's_ your concern right now? You're worried about your bloody books?' Crowley threw up his hands, as if asking God herself if she could believe this shit. 'Harry and Hermione had packed their bags, angel. They were planning to run away, utterly convinced that you don't want them here anymore! Harry said you wouldn't even look at Hermione, that she tried to talk to you and you left before she could get a word in!' Crowley fell silent, staring intensely as though hoping Aziraphale would leap in to explain and set things to rights. 

Aziraphale said nothing, not even when Crowley stood from his chair and started to pace, running a hand through his hair absently. 'Just tell me why, angel. Why'd you leave them?'

'Why should I have stayed?'

Crowley's graceless motion faltered and fell to absolute, predatory stillness. 'BECAUSE THEY'RE OUR CHILDREN!' His bellow echoed through the silence, bouncing back upon them as the magic keeping Harry and Hermione from being woken focused the sounds back inwards. Crowley grimaced at the noise, his hands balled into fists so tightly his hands began to drip blood onto the carpet, not that he seemed to notice the minor act of destruction. 'BECAUSE THEY ARE OUR CHILDREN AND THEY NEEDED YOU!' 

'They're not children, though, are they?' There was a voice in Aziraphale's head, one that sounded a lot like Anathema's calm rationality, begging him to shut up and think. To see the look of hurt and confusion on Crowley's face, to keep his traitorous thoughts to himself and show his family mercy. But it was as though a switch had been flipped inside his head (water damage from that ocean between his ears, no doubt), and once he had started to talk, he couldn't seem to stop himself. ' _Your_ precious daughter tried to murder a man, Crowley!' (Aziraphale pointedly ignored the flinch and betrayed look from Crowley at his words.) _Children_ do not lure people to their deaths. They do not use their skills to inflict a drawn out and agonising death to someone they dislike! They... they tell their parents, or a teacher. They DO NOT KILL. They DO NOT think murder is a righteous action. Do you know who _does_ kill, though? Who thinks it's perfectly acceptable behaviour? Demons. Monsters. _Abominations_. So forgive me if I didn't feel like playing happy families with the monster we seem to be raising.'

'Hermione is _not_ a monster. And _he_ is not the victim in this scenario.' There was hellfire to Crowley's tone, a promise of unpleasant things if Aziraphale kept talking, and the room seemed suddenly devoid of oxygen, like it had all fled at the sight of Crowley's temper. But still, Aziraphale couldn't stop. And the more he talked, the more his arms seemed to have minds of their own, flailing and gesturing as though with enough haphazard motion, Crowley could be made to see reason.

'Isn't he? Yes, he was doing the wrong thing, but did he deserve... _that_? How is she any better or less vicious than he is, _really_ Crowley? We spent years- actual, literal years- looking after Warlock. You did everything you could to make him evil, and I did everything I could to make him good, and he turned out normal. A mouthy little brat, of course, but rather decent overall. An overindulged wretch of a child being tempted by the very forces of Hell, and we made him chaotic _neutral_. And what about Adam? The Antichrist himself, and he never, ever stooped so low as Hermione has!'

'Oh, did I imagine the part where he was going to kill or control all of humanity? We're ignoring the bit where tried to make slaves of his besties, are we? When he removed their bloody mouths so they couldn't keep telling him 'no'?'

'HE STOPPED. He saw he was wrong, and he stopped, and tried to make amends. All that power running through his veins, and still, he worked to save the world. Hermione... didn't. She brushed past every other option besides violence so quickly it's as if she _wanted_ to make that choice. She wanted to hurt him, and that is _not_ how good people think or act.' Why couldn't Crowley see that? Was even a failed demon like Crowley so far from goodness that the idea just did not make sense to him?

'And... what? She should have just let him go skipping off into the countryside? Let him find another hunting ground, take another child? KILL another child? That's the righteous thing to do? Tell me, _angel_ (Aziraphale winced at the way Crowley could turn a term of endearment into a scathing insult with just a hint of inflection), what exactly would you have done in that situation?'

'Not killed a man!'

'Don't be melodramatic! He's _alive_. Off sitting in a cell contemplating his life choices while all over the countryside, forensic teams are being summoned to search his dumping grounds at first light. Because of Hermione, a lot of families are going to have closure. Because of Hermione, Heather didn't die horribly and her family don't have to wonder what happened to their baby girl. Because of _our_ daughter, there's one less predator loose in the world! That... that isn't evil. That is pretty much the opposite of evil. Evil is about doing horrible things for the sake of doing horrible things. Evil is _enjoying_ horrible things. At any single point in any of this, did Hermione look like she was having fun? That she thought it was funny? Hermione did something horrible- I don't deny that- but it wasn't out of amusement. She was trying to do right, even if she went about it in a terrible way.'

'Oh, of course _you'll_ excuse it! You're a demon! Why am I even surprised that you've chosen to make her the victim in all of this? Yes, he was doing the wrong thing, but did he deserve to freeze to death, being brutalised by illusions and terrorised into eternity? How is she any less a monster than he is, Crowley? Do his crimes really, truly measure up to that punishment?'

'If you'd bothered to investigate, you'd know the answer already.' Aziraphale was gratified to see he wasn't the only one to jump at the sound of Hermione's scathing voice, thrumming with malice in a way no child's voice should be capable of. It seemed wrong somehow to see her dressed in a childish purple nightie dotted with love hearts (his purchase for her, not the sort of fashion she'd typically choose for herself), feet clad in fluffy pink socks, her hair puffed with static and her posture ready for battle. Beside her, Harry's eyes blazed with fury, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists as though itching to throw a punch, his rage focused upon Aziraphale. It was so easy to forget how powerful they were, but now, facing their combined wrath, Aziraphale was painfully aware of the magic thrumming through their veins. Crowley moved to stand with the twins, drops of blood trailing along beside him like a sacrificial offering to a long forgotten god.

There are moments where the world seems to still and fall silent, as though the weight of what's coming has muffled all else in existence. To Aziraphale, this moment carried a weight he couldn't even begin to fathom, let alone work to lessen. A shiver of warning worked its way along his spine, and in another plane of existence, his wings fluttered nervously.

'You're so fucking quick to make me the bad guy, to pretend that it's all my fault and I should have been _nicer_ about it. Call me crazy, but I thought stopping children dying horribly was pretty fucking nice of me! If keeping Heather safe makes me a demon, then I wear the term proudly. Better a demon doing good than an angel with its head up its arse. I mean, hell, why bother investigating when you can stomp your foot and make assumptions instead? You haven't even bothered seeing what he had done- what he would keep doing! You just...' she gestured, and how the motion could seem so helpless and sad while she looked ready to wage war on whatever fool angered her (Aziraphale tried not to think too hard about the fact _he_ was that fool) he would never know. 'Do you hate me that much? Do you honestly hate me so much you'll leap to whatever story you can tell that makes me the monster?' She scrubbed at her eye as though wiping away tears before they fell, and the gesture felt like a sucker punch. _He_ had made her cry. 

_He_ had made his daughter cry. He tried, failed, to ignore the traitorous voice reminding him that she'd brought it on herself. 

'It's not like that, Hermione...' He struggled to think of how to explain what it _was_ like, and she rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and staring him down like he was a wayward fledgling caught misbehaving rather than the adult in the conversation. 

'Have you even bothered to think this is why I couldn't come to you? Because you're so busy patting the heads of the simple little mortals that you can't even begin to understand what they're capable of? For someone so frustrated by Heaven's inability to see humans as they are, you seem happy enough to do it, too. So why don't you flit off down and take a peek into his head before you declare him an innocent widdle baby in need of protection? Why don't you go see for yourself what their final moments were like? What the hours before those final moments were like? Why don't you try to understand the situation rather than just being an asshole, or is that too much effort for the oh-so perfect Aziraphale?'

'Because you are better than this, Hermione! The one rule I have worked to instill in you is that you do not use your powers for malicious purposes- that only monsters corrupt the gifts they have been given. _You do not use your gifts to cause harm.'_

Harry scoffed. 'Right, like you never used yours to make mobsters and real estate agents leave and never come back? You didn't leave a French executioner to be murdered for interrupting your lunch plans? Didn't let Nazi's explode while protecting some books? Don't pretend you've got any moral high ground here, Zira.' It had been months since Harry had used his name rather than calling him 'dad', and the shift hurt far more than Aziraphale had thought possible. He opened his mouth, struggling to figure out what to say, before giving it up as a lost cause. There was nothing to say, not really. 

Not yet, when every word was an open wound.

'Hermione is not a monster, and you will not call her that again, angel.' There was a quiver in Crowley's voice, a hesitance to his words that left Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. 'If you need time to process, to decide what you want to do, that's fine. But if you don't want to see or acknowledge the reality of the situation, you _will_ keep your opinions to yourself, or get the hell out. There's enough to solve right now without you wading in to make it worse in a fit of pique.' Barely audible beneath the bravado was a note of pleading, as though Crowley were begging him to stop, to do something that Aziraphale could not in good conscience do. To pretend nothing was happening. 

Sparing a final look to his family, Aziraphale nodded once, a jerky, decisive little motion, and then vanished from their home. 


	6. Chapter 6

HARRY

One of the best parts of their family was how in sync they all were. Not like boy band dance moves synchronised, so much as all of their movements just naturally began to fall into similarity. Though they were all like that, they all knew that Hermione and Crowley were basically two halves of a sneaky, hilarious whole in the same way that Harry and Aziraphale were. It was usually pretty funny to see the pair of them obliviously mirroring each other's actions.

It wasn't quite so funny now. 

If he were being honest, once they'd all gotten over the initial shock of becoming an impromptu family, they'd just sort of fallen into their similarities, mirroring the others in their own little ways. Beyond the ability to change her eyes, Hermione unconsciously mimicked her father's serpentine motion, though she managed it far more gracefully than Crowley, with almost a dancer's fluid movements in place of (as Aziraphale had called it once while in a strop) Crowley's 'snake learning to use stilts' impersonation. He'd developed his fath... _Aziraphale's_ habit of straightening his clothes when thinking carefully of what to say, and the way of walking through the world that better helped you to blend into it. And he and Hermione had both somehow learned to adapt to the other's strengths and weaknesses, until he could deflect when Hermione wasn't sure of something and needed time to think, and she could find and exploit any possible loophole when he'd invariably gotten into trouble and needed to find a way back out of it. So he wasn't surprised to see Crowley sag, all his bravado falling away like air from a long, sad sigh, and Hermione beside him dropping to the floor like a puppet whose strings hadn't been so much neatly cut as taken to with a chainsaw. Crowley hadn't noticed, too shocked and too focused on the spot where Aziraphale had vanished from. 

Harry dropped to the floor beside his twin, and hugged her tightly as she shook. Like Crowley, she was staring open-mouthed at the place where the family's angel should be standing. For his part, Harry turned his back, refusing to spare another glance to where his father... where his _guardian_ , should be. It wasn't like he was coming back anytime soon. 

_Not for you, at least,_ whispered a traitorous voice in Harry's head that sounded suspiciously like Petunia Dursley. _He's finally seen you for the freak you are- too much trouble to bother with! Or maybe he just never really cared about you. Seemed awfully easy for him to walk away, didn't it boy?_

He shivered at the sound, fought to push that voice back into the little box he kept right at the back of his mind for its monologues, but even with it squared away, it was a difficult point to refute. After all, was Aziraphale even his guardian anymore? He'd left them. He'd left _Harry._ He hadn't even asked if Harry wanted to go with him- not that Harry would have left Hermione, of course, but surely he should have at least been asked? Aziraphale had clearly decided Hermione was too much right now, but had he given up on Harry, too?

Harry didn't know, and the realisation hurt more than any of Vernon's hits. Aziraphale had always been an open book, and not one of the complicated ones. Not one of the really simple kid's books, either. More like YA- earnest and smart and thoughtful without falling to using the biggest possible words to sound important or intellectual. Harry had always taken comfort that he and his fath... _Aziraphale_ had always, _always_ known what the other was thinking or feeling, could always work together to solve whatever chaos their family had wandered into. 

Well, at least, until now. Because Harry did not understand Aziraphale. Not in the slightest. Oh, sure, it was a lot to take in. Harry certainly hadn't thought that this was going to be what Hermione told him when he'd gone to give her a hug. It was way, way bigger and scarier than he'd thought possible, but that wasn't a reason to turn and run away! Harry tried, failed, to imagine how scared Heather would have been- how scared _Hermione_ would have been, tried to imagine what he'd have done if it had been him and Adam riding home rather than Pepper and Hermione.

He didn't know what he'd do. If his mind were a book, all the words within seemed to have been written in invisible ink.

He'd like to think he'd have been brave like Hermione, but he was more a beat them into submission kind of a guy, and even if Hermione hadn't gone into much detail about what she'd seen in the man's memories, her terror was enough to tell Harry that he'd have been woefully ill-equipped to respond to the threat. Perhaps, like Aziraphale, he'd fallen into the trap of seeing people at their best rather than preparing for the worst the way Hermione always seemed to. He probably wouldn't have even thought to use magic! But- and even disagreeing with Aziraphale in his own mind felt like a kind of a betrayal- he knew Adam wouldn't have been as meek as the angel claimed. Oh, sure, he hadn't ended the world, but there were moments where that darkness shone through, just a little, and Harry knew that the Antichrist wouldn't have been merciful if he'd been the one to stumble onto Heather's abduction. 

Harry rather wondered if it was an act of divine mercy that it was Hermione, rather than Adam, who intervened.

As Hermione's shaking turned into big, heaving sobs, so loud that they shook Crowley from his stupor and saw him hit the ground impossibly fast to scoop them both into a too tight embrace, Harry tried to figure out what to do next. Because, like Aziraphale (and Hermione), he tended to like a plan when it came to solving big and intimidating problems. And this? This was a bigger, more intimidating problem than he'd ever had to deal with before- and he'd had to deal with the Dursleys, so that was definitely saying something. 

Aziraphale was gone. Gone in a way that looked suspiciously like he wasn't coming back. But surely he would, right? They all had tempers- they'd been around each other too long to be surprised by it- and they'd all needed to take time to calm down before. Just... not in the way that meant magically storming from the house without a word. 

No.

He'd said a word.

He'd called Hermione a monster. And Harry made a mental note to destroy every book in the house that wasn't Hermione's in retaliation (at least, when his arms were less filled with broken hearted sister and father). Aziraphale deserved his anger, not his tears. Anger was better, easier. It felt less like Harry was seconds from drowning in that black gunk they cover roads with, and more like he was seconds from setting that gunk on fire and burning Aziraphale's world down. Once, Vernon had held his head in the bathwater 'for a lark', and Harry was more than happy to avoid that gasping, burning feeling for as long as he could. He'd choose anger over fear every single time. So he bit his lip until the urge to cry joined Petunia's bitter voice in the 'ignore it in hopes it'll bugger off' box, and made himself a promise. While Crowley and Hermione were inconsolable in their shock and grief, Harry would protect them. He'd take care of them until he figured out what to do. 

He hadn't kept Hermione safe, hadn't been there when she needed him. 

He could do this. 


	7. Chapter 7

CROWLEY

Nobody went to bed. Nobody particularly remembered there were beds to go to, or sleep to be had, as though Aziraphale hadn't just taken all of the air with him when he went, but the bedrooms, and the memory of sleep, as well.

With a minor demonic miracle, Crowley conjured a nest of pillows and blankets, released Kaa from her cage to join the snuggle pile (though still young, the serpent had a hell of a knack for hugs), and wrapped his children up in everything soft and comforting and safe he could think of as a fire suddenly crackled with needless, almost mocking cheer nearby. A quick glare, and the fire fell silent, the flames seeming to curl away from their maker's temper.

They needed comfort. But there was no room for cheerfulness. Not yet.

Crowley had fucked up. Rather spectacularly, really. Gotten so wrapped up in the shock of his angel suddenly not there that he'd forgotten, even if only for a moment, that there were two children to consider. And oh, how he hated himself for it. Time travel, unfortunately, was not an option (even if it were, he didn't doubt Beelzebub would notice, would sneak in and make things worse out of spite), so instead, he bundled Harry and Hermione up, hugged them closely, and whispered every comforting, loving thing he could think of (which, coincidentally, consisted of every single thing he wished somebody would say to _him_ right now.)

_It's going to be okay. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it's going to be okay._

_He'll come back. Of course he will!_

_He just needs time to process. You know what angels are like- they take forever to work through the tiniest issue! Have you seen his wardrobe? That is NOT the wardrobe of an angel who adapts well to change!_

_He still loves you._

Hermione just sobbed, the sort of heaving, agonising sounds even Hell would struggle to draw from a human, the sort that sounded like she'd given up breathing for Lent and probably wouldn't be overly successful at relearning the skill any time soon. The sort of sound that made him want to find and strangle his beloved for breaking her fragile, mortal heart so easily. Crowley had promised himself that he'd never use his powers to sneak a peek into the minds of his children- they needed their privacy, they needed trust between them and trust was incredibly difficult to rebuild once you know someone's been rifling around your brain rather than asking simple questions.

But there were no simple questions here, just a girl so broken she wouldn't be able to talk even if he could figure out a question to ask.

Just a boy whose expressions veered between righteous fury and utter devastation. 

Just a demon with no fucking clue how to piece them all back together again. 

Truth be told, Crowley had always thought he'd be the one to break them. He was the one with centuries of practise in horribleness, after all. The one who had to learn that 'love' was not a curse word, and kindness wasn't sinful. He knew he was dramatic, prone to flying off the handle and storming off to sulk in a dark corner somewhere. Aziraphale though? He was the nice one. The forgiving one. The one born knowing how to be kind. 

Normally, Crowley would ask himself what Aziraphale would do, but that was before he realised 'throw a tantrum and storm out' was actually a possibility. Apparently, the angel wasn't a terribly good role model right now. So while every instinct demanded Crowley run away and figure out his own emotions before wading into his children's, he forced himself to stay in place, an arm wrapped around each child, muttering platitudes and letting Kaa add her own hissed comforts to the white noise of Hermione's breakdown. 

It took hours for her to cry herself to sleep, with her brother and father sitting vigil at her side, hours of sneaking peeks into her mind to try and fail to find something to do to ease her suffering, or sneaking peeks into Harry's mind when he was good and distracted and oblivious to the way he couldn't quite hide the darkness tendriling through his mind. Not from Crowley. Crowley knew darkness. He knew the sort of thoughts that twist you up and tear you apart, and his son was starting to drown in them. This was, traditionally, the point where Aziraphale would step in and somehow say the perfectly right thing to help Harry see the truth of it all, but Aziraphale wasn't here and Crowley was terrified. Their children were so beautifully, perfectly breakable, and Crowley had always been the one holding the sledgehammer, not the one undertaking the inevitable repairs. 

The idea of saying something, anything, and saying it wrong stole what little air had finally begun returning to his lungs. One wrong word, and he could break Harry's heart. The urge to run was overpowering. 

Kaa, beautiful, ridiculous Kaa, curled her way along his arm and around his neck, her tail tapping against his shoulder like a rather stern reminder. So instead of running, he cleared his throat, and watched Harry look towards him, his devestation almost completely hidden. 

'Downside to being a demon- or a perk, depending on your perspective, I guess- people can't hide their negative emotions. Don't get me wrong, you play a good game. Normal people? They'd believe you. But me? I can see it. So tell me, kid, what's going on in that big, beautiful brain of yours?' He knew, of course. But a small, usually easy to overlook bit of instinct was being rather insistent that it would be better for Harry to actually say the big and scary things out loud.

Harry didn't often lapse into the 'deer in headlights' expression, but seeing it left a jolt of guilt hurtling through Crowley's bloodstream, slowing to hit every single nerve ending along his spine before running laps that raised the hair at the back of the demon's neck. Kaa, probably the wisest being in the conversation, slapped her tail to the back of his head, the embarassingly loud thwack enough to jolt him from his panic. Harry didn't speak. Not at all, even after they spent ten minutes staring at each other rather awkwardly in their mutual panic. Huffing a quiet sigh, Crowley hugged his son tighter, offering a sad sort of a smile that, if he were being honest, was probably more like a grimace. 

'Okay, how about I take a guess? Your Dad storming out has unearthed some of the bullshit from the Dursley's. You see him storm off without a word to you, you think that maybe, just maybe, you're part of the problem. Getting close?' Harry was shaking, and every part of Crowley that mattered railed at the idea that he was hurting Harry. But that tiny little voice of instinct, the one that pushed him to say something to the cute angel guarding Eden's gate, would not be denied. 'So now you're stuck, because you're not sure where you stand, as though you're not one of the best things to ever happen to me, and to Mya. You feel like you've gotta protect us, because that's your job, right? It's why you crash tackle bullies and stand up against injustices- you're a protector. So you want to protect your twin, but at the same time you want to find somewhere dark to hide and cry for a year, right?'

Harry tilted his head as though in genuine contemplation. 'Two years, minimum.' Crowley snorted indelicately. 'How'd you know?'

'Because that's exactly how I feel right now, too. I don't know how to do this, kid. I don't even know how to have this conversation without hurting you accidentally. This?' He gestured around them haphazardly, almost knocking Kaa from her perch. She hissed in frustration, and he dropped his hand back to run through Hermione's hair. 'None of this is my strong suit. I'm learning as I go, too. I dunno about you but I did not see any of this coming.'

Harry shook his head. 'So if you don't know what to do, and I don't know what to do, and Hermione doesn't know what to do, how about this: we stop pretending any of us has to know what to do, or how to act, and we just be honest with each other, even if the honesty hurts? I can't... I can't make Zira come back, but right now I don't really care about that much, I care about making sure you and Hermione are okay. _Not_ just Hermione. I know you've always been closer to Zira than to me, but I need... I need you to know that I love you as much as I love Hermione. You're my kid, too. And even if sometimes I might need to take a moment and hide until I get my own emotions under control- because I'm still learning how to do this humaning thing, too- I'm not going anywhere. You, Hermione and Kaa are the very best parts of my life, and just because Zira's having a fit of the dramatics doesn't mean I'm going to. Well, not like that, anyway. Might be a bit much to pretend I can be un-dramatic...' 

Harry, thank Satan, cracked the smallest of smiles, the sort like a spark to kindling, the sort that maybe, just maybe, could mean a full, proper smile one day. Not today, certainly. But one day.

'Yeah, I thought Aziraphale was the only non-dramatic one in the family. Glad we didn't have a bet going.' Harry muttered, the sarcasm all but dripping from his tone. For a moment, it was like old times (or, at least, the times Before This Horrible Moment), full of playful teasing and banter. The bravado faded from his expression, and his tone. 'So what do we do now?'

'Honestly? I don't know. Let this one sleep, for a start. But...' he bit his lip, contemplated his next words with more care than he'd put into almost anything else in his life. 'I know Hermione is going to need us. And I know that you're going to try and be strong, because she needs us. And I love what an amazing brother you are to her, and I'm so proud of you for it. But I'm... I'm afraid. I'm afraid that you're going to pretend it's all okay when it's not and you're going to get broken down by the strain of that, and I'll be too busy looking after Hermione to notice. Because- look, I try, but I don't... I don't always notice things quickly enough? Hell isn't really big on emotional support, and I'm still learning. _I'm still so, so bad at this, Harry._ Which has never really mattered before now because Aziraphale usually _isn't_ bad at it, and can step in when I'm screwing up. And I don't want to hurt you, ever, even to keep Hermione safe. You're my son, and I love you, and that is never going to change. Ever. So I need you to promise that you'll tell me if something is wrong, and let me help you, because this,' Crowley gestured vaguely around them, 'is scary and overwhelming, but the idea of accidentally hurting you because I missed something is fucking terrifying to me, okay? Can you do that, please? Can you... can you tell me if I don't notice something? Can you help me not fuck this up?'

He hadn't expected Harry to fall against him, but held tightly as his son began to cry. He could make this work. He _would_ make it work. He'd keep his children safe, and figure a way to see them all safely through this nightmare. Even if Aziraphale never came back (oh Satan, he would though, wouldn't he?)

He had to. 


	8. Chapter 8

AZIRAPHALE

The bookshop door was doing an incredibly good job of mocking him, given its status as an inanimate object. Aziraphale knew, of course, that all he needed to do was raise his hand, turn the doorknob, and there would be light, warmth, and calm. The scent of aged paper, and the scent of hot chocolate- spiked, of course, to drive away the chill that seemed reluctant to leave his bones. And yet, he stood, almost frozen, staring mutely at the door as he grew increasingly colder, the snow seeping into his clothing as though enjoying his discomfort. The world was light, noise, chaos around him and for the first time in his long, long life, Aziraphale found himself frustrated at the constant motion of humanity. It was the middle of the damned night. Couldn't they just shut up? Just for a few hours? Couldn't they go the hell to sleep and leave him be?

He could almost hear Crowley's fond drawl of 'it's just a door, angel. It's not gonna bite. Just open it.' The snow could take lessons from so idle a thought around the correct ways to chill the blood. Blizzards could learn a lot from hurt feelings, all things considered. He searched his mind for a quote, a book, a genre that captured that all-consuming sense of misery, but nothing came to mind, as though the library he carried within him had burned with the books Harry had destroyed. 

He rather hoped Crowley would keep the rest of his library safe in his absence.

He rather thought that was wishful thinking. 

A moment of contemplation, and the remaining books of his library, and the remnants of those lost, settled in place within the bookstore, replicas ensuring nobody would notice the change. At least, not unless they tried to destroy them. Just quietly, he doubted it would take long for someone to take their frustrations out on his library again, unfair though it would certainly be. The most obvious candidate would be Harry, of course- the boy was fiercely protective of Hermione, and knew exactly where to attack to cause the most pain if he felt it was warranted- and clearly, he felt it a thoroughly earned punishment. But in fairness, Crowley was a likely candidate, too. For all the snake eyes and hissing, it was easy to forget that Crowley was a demon, and prone to bouts of wickedness, though unlike most of his kind, Crowley contented himself with vengeance rather than wickedness simply for the fun of it.

But Crowley didn't always understand what did, and didn't, deserve vengeance. His idea of wickedness was rather skewed by his time in Hell, and he'd often need to be talked down until he could see that a problem required a stern conversation rather than a full scale vengeance quest. Of course Crowley would see this as a betrayal- far worse than Aziraphale's initial refusal to help stop the apocalypse. He'd assume the worst, because Crowley always assumed the worst. He hadn't left them, not really. He just needed a little time to figure things out. A few days, perhaps, and a very long, very stern conversation, and things could hopefully return to normal, aside from the need to replace some books. At least he knew Hermione, no matter how furious she might be, would never deign to destroy a book. It was far less comforting to realise she had found other, far more terrible, ways of seeking vengeance. 

He resolutely pushed his thoughts towards another, far less maudlin path. 

Aside from the hastily salvaged additions, the bookstore- and the apartment therein- would be just how he left it, everything perfectly in place. He could open the door, and settle in as though nothing had happened, as though he had never stopped calling this space home and moved into something far less perfectly his but infinitely more home-like. He tried, of course, to shake off the burst of hesitation as post-war unease. Heaven and Hell both knew of the bookstore, could find him offensively easily as soon as he stumbled in from the cold. Of course, he knew damned well that Heaven and Hell had nothing whatsoever to do with his reluctance to allow himself inside.

He did not stumble in from the cold. Instead, he allowed himself to vanish from London, to settle into a hotel in Australia, the heat a sudden, jarring oppression more than capable of offering distraction. At least, for a moment. But once the door was shut behind him, and his eyes were taking in the uncomfortable minimalism of the room (he tried not to look directly at the rather ugly 'artwork' on display, winced at the fancy but utterly uncomfortable looking _things_ passing themselves off as chairs), his mind was more than willing to remind him of the comforts he'd abandoned back home. _No, not abandoned. Never abandoned. Temporarily left._

The family he'd temporarily left back home. 

He shuddered at the thought, shuddered like a large, cold and particularly slimy tongue had just dragged itself along his spine. Clearly, sitting around in a hotel contemplating the situation was not going to help right now. So instead, he set about finding the nearest bookstore. Surely, his own could do with some new tomes?

DAY FOUR

God, but he missed them. 

Right now, he should be settled into his chair, reading the morning paper. Harry and Hermione would wander out, as they often did, hand in hand, untangling themselves just long enough to settle sleepily onto his lap before tangling themselves around him so tightly he was never truly sure where any of them began or ended. They would slip back into sleep, or read over his shoulder, softly asking questions about the things they didn't fully understand, or just asking about breakfast, or the day. He would be reading, pausing every so often simply to savour the warmth of his children, the soft sounds of their breathing, the smell of their shampoo, the crackle of their magic against his skin. 

Crowley would stagger out of bed not long after, for no matter how much he loved his sleep, he loved his family more. Sometimes, he would settle in place on the arm of the chair to hug them all. Sometimes, if both children were awake, he'd simply clear his throat, move the paper, and flop down to sprawl on top of them all just to hear the twins laugh and his angel's playful complaints. He'd get up pretty quickly once the tickling began, though. He'd kiss the children on their foreheads, Aziraphale sweetly on the lips, and ask what everyone wanted for breakfast. Usually, he'd simply use magic, but sometimes, when the mood hit just so, he'd cook by hand. On those days, the children would scurry into the kitchen soon after, eager to help, eager to learn, but mostly eager to show Crowley how good they were getting at pretending to be boa constrictors and hugging him to within an inch of his not-so-mortal life. It made actually making breakfast infinitely more difficult when there were two ten year olds standing on your feet and clinging to your waist, but Crowley never seemed to mind. 

Aziraphale had read the parenting books. All of them. Of course he had. And this? This wasn't entirely usual. By this age, children, and especially boys, were gradually becoming more independent and less affectionate. It was a silly human gender norm, of course, tied to the idea that men were stoic and unfeeling and incapable of feeling such 'silly' things as pain, fear, or sadness, or wanting things like affection and physical comfort. He'd been thrilled to see Harry refuse to tolerate such foolishness. He'd always known that the day the children didn't come settle into place of a morning, his heart would break. Oh, he'd be proud, of course. They were growing up, spreading their wings. All those important but hurtful and possibly just a little bit silly things. But oh, he'd miss their quiet mornings. He'd miss being their safe place to rest, to gather their strength for the coming day. 

This? This was so much worse. Because it wasn't Harry or Hermione deciding to forgo anything. It was him. _He_ had decided not to be settled in place, ready for their morning to begin. He had decided not to be their safe place to start their day. He had decided to be a million miles away. 

It wasn't a conscious thought that brought him to Anathema's cottage, or perhaps it was. After all, her cottage was far enough away that Crowley wouldn't notice his presence, wouldn't come running for the fight that would have to happen sooner or later. Frankly, Aziraphale hoped for 'never', but it seemed like a rather pointless, impossible wish. He'd been smart enough to hide himself from all living creatures, not that it was enough with the likes of Anathema around. It took barely five minutes for her to wander out, twin mugs of tea in hand, jerking her head towards the little bench almost perfectly hidden from view. He didn't bother to refuse the clear instruction, nor the mug thrust towards him as she settled into a comfortable position. 

'What's happened?' This was, usually, one of the things he loved most about the witch. She didn't faff about with pleasantries, didn't pretend nothing was wrong for the sake of social niceties. Today, though, he'd have preferred a little time to think about what to say. 

Perhaps, though, that was the point of a demeanour such as hers. Without time to think, all he could do was tell her everything, laying out his fears and frustrations and horror as she calmly sipped at her tea as though she knew that if she said anything, or even just let her true emotions show, he would stop talking and never mention any of it again. The witch was rather perceptive, after all. Perhaps, it was because he hoped she would tell him he was right, perhaps he just needed absolution from it all. But he told her everything that he hadn't even gotten to talk to Crowley about before everything went wrong. 

His tea was almost cold by the time he'd remembered to take his first sip, and Anathema allowed the silence to soothe his frazzled nerves a little longer. 

'I was wondering why the twins seemed so sad lately.' She sighed, turning in the seat to better take his measure. 'Have you investigated the man that attacked Hermione? Seen if what she's said was true?' He shook his head. 'Why not?'

He paused, contemplated the question as though it were the most serious question in the world. It was. He contemplated it as though this single question held in its new and shaking hands his very salvation.

It was.

'Because I'm not sure there's anything he could say that would make her choices acceptable, let alone understandable.' She nodded, and while he could almost see the questions dancing upon her tongue, she allowed them five entire minutes of peaceful silence before she asked a rather unexpected question, the sort to leave him hurrying through excuses and fleeing back to Australia. 

'What if it's not because you think there's no way she could have been right, but because you're scared that if you know, truly know, what happened, you'd think she was too merciful?'

DAY FIVE

Anathema's final words to him were ghosts fluttering about in the corner of Aziraphale's sightline, each syllable a chain being rattled into perpetuity until he wanted to scream, to throw things and demand some blessed silence.

He knew, though, that silence wasn't going to be easy to find. Not surrounded by humanity cheerfully preparing for their Christmas festivities. The idea of going home, putting up a tree and wrapping presents made him feel decidedly queasy. The idea of not going home, not putting up a tree and wrapping presents and wrapping his arms around his children felt equally horrible. No, he would feel terrible either way, and feeling terrible was doing nothing to help the situation. He needed a third option. As he settled into a café that Crowley would have enjoyed mocking, realisation struck. He barely remembered his manners while placing his order as the idea began to take hold. 

Angels, and demons, did not _actually_ need to sleep. Their physiology held little physical need for sleep, the same way it didn't actually need food, or water, or wine. While he could understand the food, and certainly the wine, he had always wondered why Crowley so enjoyed the concept of ongoing vulnerability enough that he could sleep for an entire century at a time. 

Sitting, sipping at a poorly made mug of tea, he felt that perhaps he'd finally figured it out. 

It had been days since he'd left. Almost a week without a single word, five whole days where he had forced himself not to rush home, gather his family in his arms and apologise. Five days of reminding himself sternly why he wouldn't, couldn't apologise. He'd travelled the world, book shopping. He'd found absolutely nothing that caught his attention. Not a single book. It was madness. The food all tasted wrong (even the crepes from the place that had been making crepes to the same family recipe since crepes were bloody well invented!), the wine didn't soothe his temper the way it would usually do, and there was no laughter to be found at the bottom of a bottle. The books were all... just books. Just paper and ink and words, no magic, no beauty. Just squiggles imprinted on the corpses of trees.

Everything reminded him of his family. Of Hermione. Of a man screaming and begging in the snow. 

So instead of continuing his rather maudlin world tour, he paid for his tea, leaving a tip in appreciation for the staff, collected the few positions he'd left in his hotel room, and checked out, leaving Australia entirely moments later. He found himself an abandoned church in Romania long forgotten by humanity, and more than likely, angel and demon kind.

He fortified in every way he knew how, angelic and using the tips he'd been given from Crowley so many decades ago, shielding himself from anyone and everyone, even his family. _Especially_ his family.

And then, Aziraphale curled himself on a hastily conjured bed, closed his eyes, and escaped in the only way left to him. 

He slept. 


End file.
